So Far Away
by shockumentary
Summary: Based more than loosely on Looking For Alaska by John Green. Kurt goes to a boarding school in Paris, hilarity and heartbreak ensue. Warnings: Eventual major character death, hazing rituals, underage drinking/smoking, underage sexual acts and probably cursing that could make a sailor blush.
1. one hundred seventyeight days before

******Notes: **So I get a lot of Kurtbastian ideas that end up scrapped before they're even started (WWII AU, like really?), but this one would not leave me alone. The idea isn't mine, not completely anyway, and if you haven't read _Looking for Alaska _by John Green, you really, really should, but it isn't a necessity to read this. However, there will be spoilers for the book, should you choose to read this first.

* * *

**one hundred seventy-eight days before**

It was a sad excuse for a going away party; Kurt would be the first to admit that. He hadn't even wanted the damn thing in the first place. He was leaving for France in exactly six days, five hours and 32 minutes, and he really couldn't be bothered to think of anything else. But he'd agreed to play nice for his father when he'd suggested the going away party, and he was. He had hardly rolled his eyes when Rachel all but launched herself on him and begged him to stay one last time, and he'd even managed to sound excited when Mercedes showed up with a new scarf and beret to send him on his way. He was grateful, of course he was, but they weren't enough to make him stay, and they'd all known that before even trying.

The thing was that Kurt wasn't even sure why he was so _adamant _about getting out of Lima, he just knew that he was destined for bigger things, better things. It should have come as no surprise, then, when he seized the opportunity presented to him. It was a scholarship, full ride, to any school of his choosing. He'd talked it over with Burt and Carol, and after careful deliberation and reading over the pamphlets (so, so many pamphlets) they'd decided on Dalton. Burt wasn't happy about it, but once Kurt had talked to Finn, who in turn talked to Carol, Burt had approached him several days after he'd vetoed the decision to give his go-ahead.

This was his condition. Kurt could go to Dalton, all the way in France, if he agreed to a going away party. "Just a few of your friends, nothing big, nothing fancy," he'd assured him, and it would have been okay except that Kurt didn't really _have_ friends. So he sat on the couch between Rachel and Mercedes with a mix of ten of his favorite songs (thanks, Finn) playing on the DVD player while Finn twisted his hand in a cranking motion, prompting Rachel and Mercedes to respond simultaneously with exclamations of "movie!" Kurt studied him, the way he moved, all jerky and clumsy while he hunched himself over hands laying like a visor against his forehead, just above his eyebrows. He stood then, walking toward where he'd been on his knees before, and with a loud crashing noise, the girls stared, perplexed while they tried to figure out Finn's awful attempt at charades. But Kurt was bored, so he sighed while he shoved another chip in his mouth, crunching it idly while he answered "Titanic."

The party (if one could even call it that) wound down around eight, and Finn took Rachel home and Mercedes insisted that she could walk the couple of blocks, but Kurt suspected that she really just didn't want to have to watch Finn and Rachel swap spit from the back seat while they sat in Rachel's driveway for ten minutes. He didn't blame her, he'd been a victim of the Finn And Rachel Make Out Show more times than he could even count, and it was never any less unnerving than the last time. It also didn't help that it was an awful reminder of just how _alone_ he was, having to watch them be disgusting and in love, and Kurt wasn't even sure he'd technically had a first real kiss, because he often times pretended that his kiss with Karofsky had never happened at all, let alone would he accept that it was his first real kiss.

Once everyone had gone their separate ways, Kurt was settled on the couch between Burt and Carol, both of them ignoring the French Revolution (lately, unless it had to do with France, Burt couldn't seem to find interest in it) fact piece on the television in favor of watching him. It was like that expected him to cry, as though he'd expected something more, something bigger. Kurt, however, had known from the beginning that this was how it would be. He tried to ignore the accusatory stares, and instead, spewed his own fact "Marie Antoinette never said 'let them eat cake', you know. In fact-" he was cut off when Burt finally addressed the elephant in the room.

"Is this why you want to go?"

"For Marie Antoinette? I mean it's a plus, but it's not- " Kurt was cut off.

"No, Kurt. Your friends…" Burt left the sentence unfinished, and Kurt knew exactly what he was asking. He sighed before he spoke.

"No," was all he said before he stood up to leave, but he should have known there was no way it would be the end of the conversation. The fact was that Burt was wracking his brain, trying to find anything at all that would be indicative of why Kurt was so ready to leave for France, why it was all he could talk about, and he didn't even seem to be enjoying their family dinners anymore, when he should, apparently, be savoring the few they have left before Winter break, if Kurt decides to fly back home. He reasoned weeks ago that it just wasn't plausible, but Burt and Carol had made sure that he knew that if he _ever_ wanted to come home, there was always a way to get him there, no matter the cost. He didn't tell them, but he was already certain that he'd not be coming home for holidays, and with any luck, he wouldn't be coming home until summer, and even then it'd only be for a couple of months. When it came right down to it, Kurt supposed, he was just tired of Lima and this was his out.

"Why then? Why France?" Burt asked, and Kurt wasn't entirely sure how to respond. So it sounded cold, and maybe a little distant when he finally answered,

"I'm better than this." But the look on Burt's face had him backtracking, because who was he to say that he was better than what his father had built for them. He shook his head quickly, correcting "I don't, I mean-" He paused, and with a hand through his hair, he sighed.

"I just mean that I'm _bigger_ than this, dad," he continued, standing up then to head to his room, pausing to add "I don't know what it is yet, but there's something bigger, something better. And it's waiting for me in France."


	2. one hundred seventyone days before

**one hundred seventy-one days before**

L'Académie Dalton was nestled just outside of the city. It lay near isolated amongst a mess of trees and too much green, but Kurt was so excited to be there that he didn't care all that much about the location. It was raining when he landed, and it rained the entire ride to his new home, and it was still raining when they arrived. He must have had awestruck written all over his face, because the driver muttered something in French that Kurt didn't quite catch before nodding him toward the admissions office. While he walked, Kurt was convinced that he was, in fact, in some sort of elaborated prophetic dream. Nothing was this easy. Nothing was this perfect.

But it wasn't an elaborated prophetic dream, this was reality. The walls were rounded from the outsides, quick and level, and the roof tops were harsh lines, swooping and curving and pointing, and the windows and doors were arched, outlined with careful masonry. It reminded Kurt of the Chateaus they'd passed on the way in, and before he dared move the heavy wood of the front door, he paused to just take it in, inhaling slowly and exhaling against the humidity of the storm, concerning himself with the fact that he could, absolutely, get used to this.

When he finally stepped into the lobby he was met with smooth, slick floors of marble and high, vaulted ceilings, and his shoes tapped heel-to-toe, echoing through the open room when he approached the counter. A short, stout woman with salt and peppered hair sat at a desk, her head cocked to trap a phone between her ear and shoulder while she typed, and Kurt wondered, because these were the things that Kurt Hummel thought about, how many words she typed per minute. He was sure he'd never seen anyone's fingers move so quickly, but the thought was so ridiculous, even in his own mind, that he set it free moments after it'd entered. He paused at the counter, resting his hands idly against the dark grain of the wood, and he couldn't help with the tips of his fingers brushed slow against the polished top, because it seemed as though he was smitten with everything that France had offered him to this point.

After a few, too long moments of waiting, Kurt cleared his throat to get the attention of the woman behind the desk. Her head shot up and she spoke rapid-fire French before slamming the phone down on its cradle to stand up and greet him. Her mouth, wrinkled and crooked, twisted into a smile while she spoke, words thick with a native accent

"Kurt Hummel, I assume?" She extended a hand, dainty and manicured, and Kurt took it in his own while he gave an almost shy nod.

"Madame Charbonneau," she introduced herself, and Kurt very near asked her to repeat herself, hoping to pick up her name again, but before he could, she was speaking again, offering a quick "so very nice to meet you, we've been expecting your arrival. How was your trip?"

Kurt almost actually had to think about it. He'd been in such awe by the time of his arrival that he honestly didn't even recall most of his trip, nor the flight. He didn't debate for too long, and settled on a "great," to appease her, and they set to signing off on the papers that Burt had faxed over the couple of days prior to his arrival. It was all a little tricky, shipping Kurt overseas alone to start the new school, _new life_, he thought. She assigned him to a room, promising that his roommate was very sweet, and that he would be more than happy to show Kurt around the grounds and make sure that he had everything that he needed. Kurt had the distinct thought then, he was sure it was high-running emotions, that he hoped his roommate was cute to top it all.

And his roommate _was_ cute. Kind of short, a little stocky with big eyes and the most adorable smile that made his nose scrunch and his eyes get squinty, and Kurt repeated the name silently, letting it roll over his tongue while he moved it, forming the letters one-by-one until "Blaine Anderson," weren't words anymore. Madame Charbonneau hadn't been wrong, Blaine Anderson was very sweet, and so eager to help that Kurt was assuring him that he was okay more than they were saying anything else. The one criticism that Kurt did have, however, was that Blaine Anderson seemed to have absolutely no ideas about coordination. He was all lines and squares and dots and argyle, and for a half a second, Kurt thought that maybe he'd not been keeping up on French fashion as much as he'd thought he had been. The thought was as good as gone when Blaine spoke with a purely American accent.

The room wasn't awful. It was a little dark and kind of drab, but Kurt could work with that. The coffee table wasn't a coffee table, it was more a stack of old text books side-by-side that formed a square mass between the television that had a proper stand and the couch, which Kurt was more than a little perturbed to see was actually a 4-in-1 air mattress. There were no curtains on the windows, and there were various undergarments strewn about here and there, but every bow-tie was in its place, laid flat across the dresser that actually was a dresser. The bunk beds were shoved in a corner, and Blaine seemed to have already claimed the top bunk, which was fine because the bottom was bigger anyway. The floors were dark, hard wood, and they didn't help to lighten the place up, despite the stark-white walls. The bathroom sat in the corner, small and tiled and everything Kurt had imagined a New York City apartment's bathroom to be. There was a radiator under the bathroom window, and Kurt wasn't sure he wanted to assume it was their only source of heat come winter, but he didn't have time to think much because Blaine was behind him, stating a quick "Bottom two drawers are yours, and half of the closet."

Kurt was sure he should have been tired, it was near two PM, which meant it was near seven AM back home and Kurt had hardly slept through the night, mostly concerned with his connecting flights and layovers, and besides all of that, Kurt had never been able to sleep when he was excited. This, he thought, was probably why he didn't care so much for sleeping now. His bags had been delivered and he was busy unpacking and making sure everything was in its spot while Blaine sat on the couch-that-wasn't-a-couch with his feet propped on the coffee-table-that-wasn't-a-coffee-table, Xbox controller in hand while he shouted at the zombies on the screen. Kurt sighed, sitting on the bottom bunk, before speaking over the nearly muted video game "Where-" he paused, not entirely sure why he felt a sudden pang of nervousness in the pit of his stomach "Where can I find something to eat?" He questioned finally while his stomach growled its protest at the hours since Kurt's last meal. Blaine dropped the controller so quickly that Kurt didn't even notice, standing to spin around with a wide grin. Kurt's eyes were a little wide, and probably a little scared, because Blaine seemed to know that he needed to speak rather than standing with the "You are food," look at he wore, and he finally said "The food is the best thing about Dalton."

It was all Kurt needed to know to follow Blaine, out the door and under the awnings that gave shelter from the rain, despite the umbrella that Kurt held, gripped tight in one hand. There were plenty of boys about, mostly in their dorms, some playing video games, some reading, mostly things that Kurt couldn't make out, but a few that he could. But he paused, tapping his knuckle against a dry-erase board that read "Sebastian gets a single," and presumably the same in French just below the scribble handwriting.

"Gets a single?" Kurt asked, cocking his head at Blaine who shrugged as though it were something he should already know.

"He has no roommate," he explained and kept walking.

Kurt didn't say anything more, instead followed Blaine, still clutching his umbrella, no matter that they were under cover. He took in a deep, slow breath, careful to let the humid, heavy air linger in his lungs as long as he could hold it, and he would have held it longer except that he seemed to have no control over anything at all when his eyes met his. Sea green and dark with mischief, water dancing off his lashes, and it was only then that Kurt noticed that he was drenched, head-to-toe. He didn't speak, he hardly even acknowledged Kurt's existence, but when Kurt leaned down to speak the quiet question, he could articulate a name from Blaine's answer.

"Who's that?" Kurt questioned, keeping his eyes trained on the boy, long and lanky and laughing loudly while he narrowly avoided being tackled into the mud, though it wouldn't be the first time, judging by his clothes. His shirt, white at one time, was stained from the mud, wet and clinging to each line of his body, and his pants did the same, riding deliciously low on his hips and leaving Kurt to only imagine just how low those freckles went. It seemed like an eternity before Blaine spoke again, drawing him back to reality. "That would be Mister. Has-a-single." Blaine answered, and Kurt nodded, rolling the name _Sebastian_ silently over his tongue.

The dining hall was even more elaborate than the admissions building, and Kurt realized then why the school was so incredibly expensive. His fingers traced along the solid Oak table, slick and polished to perfection, like the staff paid extra attention to them, and the benches were the same, shining under the light of the fixtures, and even they were elaborate. Blaine led them toward the line, small but obvious, and paused at the back before turning to Kurt and attempting to make small talk. It was the usual questions, "where are you from?" "why Dalton?", and what he assumed was common for the location, "do you speak French?" which, of course, was spoken in broken French. Kurt did his best to answer and not sound too distracted, but mostly he was concerning himself with Sebastian, and the way he'd looked at Kurt and for the split second that their eyes met, the world stood still on its axis. The problem, Kurt reasoned, was that he doubted seriously that Sebastian was gay, and if he was, there was absolutely no way that he was single.

They were halfway through lunch when Kurt was introduced to Artie, a nice boy with a sweater-vest and glasses, and the only thing Artie seemed to like more than girls was hip hop. He was fun, and Kurt was sure they'd get along famously. Kurt had also learned that the dining hall was shared with the neighboring girls' academy, and he'd been briefly introduced to Brittany and Santana, an unlikely couple, but were apparently Xavier Academy for Girls' resident lesbians. As it turned out, they were not allowed to share a room, but they made do, and the Eagle (whom Kurt was ninety-eight percent positive had a name that wasn't the Eagle) mostly turned a blind eye, because she had better things to concern herself with, like students smoking and drinking. He was almost through with lunch when they entered, and heads turned.

"Who are they?" Kurt questioned, eyes focusing too hard on the group of boys, six or seven of them, who wore blazers and slacks and ties, and were generally very well put together. One seemed to lead the bunch, a short boy with dark hair and wide eyes, despite his fair complexion. "Those would be the Warblers. They're the actual French kids. You know, born and raised, and apparently that, somehow, makes them better?" Blaine spoke the last part as a question and focused his eyes on his food. Kurt was intrigued, though, and couldn't seem to turn away, even when Blaine spoke again. "We call them Weekday Warriors. They're here through the week, even in summer mostly, but they go home on the weekends. If it's not within driving distance, their families pay to make it within driving distance." He shrugged with one shoulder "They're pricks, mostly," he finished. They moved with elegance and determination that reeked of money and Kurt wondered if those really were the stipulations to break into the group.

Their lunch was short-lived after that, and Blaine had agreed to just let Kurt spend the remainder of the day resting up, and they'd have the grand tour of the grounds tomorrow, but that didn't last long. It was almost 11 PM when there was a knock on the door. Kurt was lying on the bottom bunk, book in hand, and Blaine was cutting and pasting pictures from magazines onto a shoebox with "J&B" scrawled on the side in thick, industrial permanent marker. Kurt was the first to look up, almost expecting Blaine to answer the door, but apparently Blaine's idea of answering the door was to shout "it's open!" from the couch-that-wasn't-a-couch. Kurt hadn't planned on paying much attention to their visitor, but when Sebastian closed the door behind him, Kurt was all ears. His words were simple, and Kurt was surprised to hear and American accent when he nodded to Blaine "We're going to the lake. Bring the roomie." It was, apparently, all Blaine needed to know, because his project was pushed aside and he was grabbing something from under the dresser that had Kurt's brows knitting until Blaine looked back at him and demanded a quick "Well?"


	3. one hundred seventy days before

**WARNINGS** for this part, there is a decent length rant about organized religion, so if that offends you, you may want to skip over it or not read this. Hazing rituals come into play in this part as well, so if that's a trigger, see above statement. Underage smoking and minor cursing warnings apply as well.

We're getting further into the story now, and there are bound to be a few things that may be hard to follow until they're explained a little later on, if you have any questions, feel free to contact me here or on tumblr at .com or on /users/shocumentary. Also, any criticism or comments you may have, or if you just generally want to fangirl over Kurtbastian or discuss the awesomeness that is nerdfighters, feel free to leave that as well.

**one hundred seventy days before **

The walk to the lake isn't too bad, except that Kurt has a feeling that Blaine is a little annoyed by the amount of questions that he has, but Kurt just cannot figure out why they (and he isn't even sure who 'they' is) deem it necessary to hike the mile, no exaggeration and maybe even an understatement, to the lake when it's pushing midnight. Blaine argues that it wouldn't have been pushing midnight if Kurt didn't insist on redressing himself before they left, and that's probably true, but Kurt refuses to cop to being the one that made them so much later than originally anticipated. However, he'd also refused to spend his first night out in France without looking his best, but after Blaine spent so much time arguing about the fact that they were just going to the lake and he'd be sitting on the ground anyway, Kurt had settled for all black, skinny jeans, V-neck, cardigan and boots.

Their arrival at the lake was, apparently, much anticipated, because Sebastian, Artie, Brittany and Santana were all waiting, and seeming more than a little irritated by the delay. Kurt found himself ducking his head then, pink creeping over his cheeks and up into the tips of his ears, burning hot when Sebastian muttered a hushed "Fuck, Anderson, what took so long?" Blaine didn't out him, though, not entirely, and Kurt suspected that it was his way of making sure that his friends were willing to deal with him for the year. Instead, he kept it simple "Minor crisis, all good." They seemed to accept it, and Kurt wasn't sure if it was apathy or the package that Blaine passed them, but they were all more than willing to make the rounds with the red box, then the lighter to spark each cigarette. When the pack was passed to Kurt, he shook his head politely and handed it back to Blaine instead, mostly because he didn't smoke, but partly because he figured that, though he was on French soil, there had to be some part of this that was illegal or they wouldn't all be sneaking off campus to do it.

The thought lingers with him for a second too long, and he can't stop himself from asking "I thought that was legal in France…" which earns him head turns from the entirety of the group before him, and he realizes then that he must look awfully ridiculous, the only one still standing, and also the one interrupting their conversation about some boy named Jesse that Blaine seems particularly animated about. Kurt wonders, momentarily, if Jesse is the J of the J&B from his box, but he doesn't ask. Sebastian is the first to speak, and Kurt suspects that the fact that he's speaking through an exhaling cloud of smoke is for effect, but he doesn't say anything. "It's legal to smoke, sure, but smoking on campus is punishable by expulsion," he explains, but he doesn't look like he's quite done, and the fact that no one else speaks afterward, proves his point. He's only paused, Kurt figures out, to take another long drag from the cigarette and speak on exhale again "so we mostly don't risk it." He finishes with a shrug, and all Kurt can do is nod.

He feels a little like an outsider when they all resume conversation, so Kurt surprises himself when he takes a seat in the circle, though he does notice that he's managed to keep himself mostly outside of it, and he figures that's good enough, because his legs burn from hiking through the hills and trees on their way to the lake. Blaine continues on with his story about Jesse, something about how he showed up to surprise Blaine with the most romantic date he's ever been on for their eight month anniversary, but Kurt doesn't pay much attention to the details, and mostly everyone just rolls their eyes and mock-gags at the gesture. Banter continues for minutes before Kurt finds himself speaking again, in response to Santana, who had, apparently, been reprimanded for her lack of going to mass, ("You're in France," her mother had said, "plenty of mass and confession schedules to choose from.") It seemed like Santana found it about as ridiculous as Kurt, but he was still a little surprised when his brain betrayed his mouth and he voiced his opinion without his conscious permission.

"Bullshit," was all he said, and the group fell quiet, all staring again, and Kurt wasn't entirely sure that he'd ever get used to that. There was a shift in the group, though of contemplation or discomfort he wasn't sure, but Sebastian was the first to ask "Excuse me?" Kurt swallowed, once, twice, and then he cleared his throat before he spoke again, repeating the word "Bullshit." No one moved, just stared expectantly, so Kurt continued. "It's just that organized religion is bullshit," He stated with a shrug, and Sebastian seemed as though he might interject, but Kurt cut him off, not really thinking of whether it was a good decision or not "I mean, really, so you let a man-made set of rules run your life, and when you happen to betray one, or often betray one," he paused then, motioning between the two girls who were so very obviously dating, even without their currently intertwined hands, " you sit in a box and tell a creepy old man how awful you feel, he prescribes a few hail Mary's, a twenty dollar donation to the church, and you're absolved of the sins and allowed back through the gates of heaven while you pay for his sanctuary of molestation and infidelity. It's bullshit." He finished his tirade to a group of smirking teenagers, and once more, Sebastian was the first to speak. But he wasn't just speaking, he was moving, extending his hand, accompanied by an "I don't think we've been properly introduced."

The rest of the night goes better than Kurt had initially expected it to, and he finds himself scooting just a little closer within the group, and more involved in conversation, but by two AM they're all heading off and sneaking back into their rooms, which seems unfairly easy for Artie, because his chair hardly even makes noise against the sidewalk, while Kurt's boots are loud enough that he has to tiptoe when Sebastian threatens physical violence if he's the reason that Sue (Kurt has yet to meet her, but apparently she's the reason that Sebastian has a single, after she caught his roommate with a girl in the room, simultaneously drunk and high, all expellable offenses.) catches them and expels them all. But they make it, tiptoeing and all, and Kurt finds himself near collapsing on the bottom bunk, stripped down to boxer-briefs and splayed out on top of the blankets in an attempt at escaping the heat that lingers over him, leaving a damp patch on the sheet before he even drifts off to sleep.

* * *

When he's startled awake he isn't sure what time it is, what's going on, and for a minute, he's not even sure where he is. But reality floods back to him quickly when he blinks the sleep from his eyes to find two boys standing over him with devious grins. The blond one demands that he stand, and Kurt is so sleepy and so confused that he doesn't know what to do but listen. So he stands, unsteady on his feet and more than a little groggy. He only asks once where they're going, and he tries to keep his voice from being too panicked, when they lead him out of the room and back toward the direction of the lake. Kurt is suddenly very aware of the fact that he's in nothing more than underwear and two boys that he doesn't know the names of are leading him to a secluded lake, far enough away that the night's earlier laughing and talking hadn't even gotten the attention of the staff. So he's more than a little nervous when they stop on the bank and two more boys are waiting, and he's shaking just a little, and he doesn't argue when they have him stand, feet together and arms at his side. He doesn't argue when they bring the tape first around his wrists, then his arms and middle, around his upper arms, thighs, knees and ankles. He doesn't argue until they're hoisting him up, two at his feet and two at his head and hauling him toward the lake. Then he argues, squirming as best he can and frantically demanding "What the hell? What are you doing!" Even as they take a swing back, forward, back again, and the dark haired one from the room gives him a sort-of answer. "Maybe next time you'll think twice about hanging around Anderson." And then he's in the water.

He's in the water, face down and taped and he can't move but to squirm, and he can feel hot tears building behind his eyelids while he does the best he can, and he finally manages to flip himself over, though he's not even entirely sure that he's flipped himself face up until he goes dead still and floats to the surface. He spits once, ridding his mouth of the murky water and takes in a quick, sharp breath. His eyes sting and he instinctually tries to raise a hand to wipe at them, but he's quickly reminded of his inability to move when he doesn't. He's helpless, confused, and all he can do is hope that the ripples of water from the wind will send him shore-side again. He shifts again, flexing his fingers and allowing the muscles of his wrists to feel against the tape, and a spark of hope rises in his chest when he feels it slip a fraction of an inch. The rough adhesive tells him that they've probably, more than likely, used duct tape, and after years of Burt's 'duct tape will fix anything' mentality, Kurt is more than aware of how it slicks when it's wet.

So he bides his time, waiting impatiently for the tape to slip more freely, and when it does, he manages to free his hands first. He's dangerously close to shore, so he's not willing to risk only getting himself further away, no matter the fact that he's not even sure which side of the lake he's making landfall on. By the time he's laying against the rocks he can feel the unmistakable sting of tears, slipping from the corners of his eyes while he sits up, twisting and contorting his arms free of the now slick tape. He's vaguely aware of the sting of the parts that managed to cling to his skin before he was submerged, but he's more focused on making his trembling hands cooperate. Once he manages to get himself free, he's on his feet in record time, wincing only slightly from the sharp jab of rocks while he hurries back the way he came. He's still not entirely sure that he's on the right path until the dirt hollows out just a little and the stray cigarette butts are visible, glaring white against the dark, reminding him already of the finer moments of the night. When he looks up, he can see that day is breaking, and the outlines of the dorms are visible against the navy blue of the lightening sky. So he walks a little faster, never minding the scratches and nicks against his legs as he weaves his way through a seemingly endless maze of trees and roots and weeds, and before he could even stop himself, he was marching his way straight to Sebastian-has-a-single, knocking quickly before covering himself with his hands.

The shuffling from inside the room is almost ominous while Kurt waits impatiently until the door swings open to reveal a sleep riddled Sebastian, all pale skin and long lines, and for a second, Kurt almost forgets that he's upset, or why he's there in the first place. But Sebastian grins at the sight, quirking an eyebrow even in his groggy state and mutters a quiet "Welcome to Dalton," and Kurt isn't exactly sure what his face looks like, but he thinks it must be some mix of mortification and another bout of impending tears, because Sebastian is quick to tell him "It happens to the best of us, the worst is over now, stop crying about it and get out of here before Sue makes her rounds," and closes the door in his face.

Kurt wants to scream, bang on the door and demand answers, because right now he's pretty sure that the entire school banded together in a 'drown Kurt Hummel' campaign that no body, even the people he would consider near friends, bothered to warn him about. But he _is_ Kurt Hummel, and he's overcome worse than being thrown in a lake, so all he does is salvage what is left of his dignity and slip as quietly as possible into the third door down from Sebastian's. He also silently vows to never sleep in his underwear again, no matter the heat and humidity. He hurries into the bathroom, grabbing a towels and clothes on his way, and he slams the door with every intention of waking Blaine up. He thinks that maybe he'll stay in there for a minute, intent on making a point, but it's hot and the bathroom seems hotter than their actual room, so he makes do with just starting up the shower instead.

When he finally moseys back into the room Blaine is sitting on the top bunk, a crease from the pillow red against his cheek and hair in complete disarray, and Kurt's wide eyes say that he understands why he uses the gel. Kurt's eyes narrow just the slightest bit, and he almost feels a little bit bad to berating him so soon after he wakes up, but Kurt is mad, damnit, and Blaine needs to know that this is his fault. "It's because of you." He growls quietly while he folds the towel over the rails of the top bunk to dry, though he's certain it will only add to the humidity of the room. He stops, though, because Blaine is laughing, a sleepy, raspy laugh and Kurt can't even fathom-

"Why are you laughing," He exclaims, but Blaine just keeps on.

"My fault," he finally asks incredulously, "how is this _my _fault?"

Kurt is furious now, sure that Blaine is fully aware of how this is _his_ fault, even when Kurt _isn't_ sure how it's his fault. He doesn't know what Blaine has done to piss those boys off, but it must have been something big enough for them to try to drown him just for hanging out with him. Which, he thinks, is unfair anyway, because he was assigned to the room and obviously can't _help_ being around Blaine, or he would be happy to drop him rightthissecond. He talks it up in his head, but Blaine is looking honestly confused, so he tries to provide answers, even if he has none himself.

"They said "maybe next time you'll think twice about hanging around Anderson," and threw me in the lake." He knows the pitch of his voice is leaving very little in the dignity department, especially considering he'd gotten a door closed in his face and had to do, essentially, the Dalton-walk-of-shame in his underwear in to a highly amused roommate who needn't see any more of his body as far as Kurt is concerned.

"What?" Blaine is speaking again, and Kurt is almost so sick of it that he drops the entire thing, but Blaine just keeps on. "No, this happens to everyone. They pull you out of bed, the less clothing you're wearing the funnier it is, they take you to the lake, make you lie on the rocks and then they toss you in the lake. You swim out; walk home, no big deal." He explains it as though it's that easy, and Kurt is more furious now than he was to start. He drops the blanket on the bed and stands quickly, narrowing avoiding smacking his head on the rails of the top bunk, and his voice is near yelling.

"How do you propose I _swim out_ with my entire body duct-taped so tightly that I can't even _move_?" He spits the last of the words like venom, and Blaine seems to be more confused now than he was when they started. Kurt is about to go back to making his bed when Blaine is moving, and there's not much he can do but move out of the way of the swing of Blaine's legs, and he mutters a quiet "that's why there's a ladder," while he steps back to let the boy jump from the top bunk to the floor. Blaine is the one demanding answers then, and Kurt doesn't know what to tell him.

"Who was it? Do you remember what they look like?" And he looks positively furious in a way that Kurt wasn't even sure that he was capable of. Kurt sighs, running a hand through his hair before nodding "I think so," he bargains, defeat plaguing his voice. He chances a glance out the window when Blaine moves the curtain, noting that it's almost fully light out, and he's sure he won't be getting much more sleep. He groans quietly, dropping his head against the rail of the bed before turning to sit on the bottom bunk and scrub his hands over his face. It's quiet, so he can't be sure, but he swears that he hears Blaine declare war from the bathroom. He lays back, arm thrown over his eyes, and he thinks that maybe he could squeeze a few more minutes of sleep, but Blaine is back and demanding "Did you hear me? This is war. Get up."


End file.
